#jim ripple

[boonalina]

Just wanted to blast from the past. For new viewers wondering, Raine Whispers won btw. The poll ended months ago.

I'm mostly posting this so that I can change my background photo lol.

I give full permission for anyone to use this picture. ~Bonnalina

[oswaldsfoot]

a/n: This update took fives years bc I forgot half the plot, but We’re Back, Baby

summary: They’re both playing a dangerous game with lives on the line, and the only way they’ll survive is if they work together.

rating: teen and up

fandoms: the Little Mermaid, Treasure Planet

tags: canon divergence, historical fantasy, cecalia!Jim

ao3

[pwrn51]

Beneath the Surface: Silent Heroes in Our Midst

  In this engaging interview, Betsy welcomes Jim B. North, writer, speaker, and former reporter with Gaylord News. Renowned for his multiple journalism awards, particularly for human interest storytelling, Jim North is the author of “UNSUNG HEROES WEAR NO CAPES: 12 Essential Virtues For An Extraordinary Life.” During their insightful conversation, Jim delves into the motivation behind his book…

[capquinn]

can we get a blurb about quinn telling his parents he’s gonna be a dad, pretty pretty please???? i feel like he’d be nervous to tell them but also bursting at the seams wanting them to know. it’s probably hard for him being so far away for most of the year, that he wants them to be involved as much as they can, but he’d also want to respect his partner’s wishes if she wanted to wait to tell people until she was further along in case something happened

The decision about when to tell Quinn’s family about the baby over Thanksgiving weekend had been made weeks ago, but actually doing it was proving to be a whole different story.

For Quinn, the excitement of telling them had been almost overwhelming at first, a buzz of energy thrumming beneath his skin every time he thought about the moment. He could picture their reactions so clearly: Ellen’s face lighting up with joy and then tears, Jim’s steady pride breaking into a wide grin. He’d played it over in his mind again and again, letting the thought carry him through the quiet moments of doubt.

But now, as the reality of actually saying the words settled in, the nerves crept in too. It wasn’t that he doubted their reaction — they would be thrilled, he knew that. They adored him, a love larger than life itself, their pride woven into every word they spoke about him. A love so steadfast it felt unshakable. And over the years, that same love had effortlessly extended to you, not just welcoming you into their family but embracing you as if you’d always been a part of it.

However, the weight of the moment, of what it symbolised, suddenly felt heavier. This wasn’t just a fleeting piece of good news to share. It was life-changing, not just for him and you, but for them as well. They were about to become grandparents, stepping into a new chapter of their lives, and he couldn’t shake the pressure of wanting the moment to be perfect.

The confidence he’d carried on the flight home for the weekend was slipping, giving way to a swirl of emotions he couldn’t quite name. He’d been eager, almost impatient, to share the news, to feel the weight of it lifted and replaced with their joy, their pride, their unwavering support. He wanted them to share in the excitement, to feel connected to this life-changing moment despite the physical miles that often separate them. He needed them to know that their place in this new chapter, as grandparents, was as important to him as the one he was stepping into.

But now, standing on the brink of saying it aloud, a sudden wave of nerves hit him, sharp and unexpected. The enormity of it all — the love, the hope, the vulnerability wrapped in the words — made his throat tighten.

It wasn’t just an announcement. It was a shift, one that would ripple out and reshape everything. Parenthood, after all, was still something the two of you were learning to grasp.

The first evening back home unfolded in the warm glow of Ellen’s kitchen, the scent of roast chicken and fresh-baked bread filling the air. The house alive with warmth — the crackle of the fireplace, the low hum of laughter, and the familiar cadence of Jim’s voice as he spun a tale about the neighbour’s runaway tractor. He gestured animatedly, earning chuckles and interjections from Ellen, who corrected him at every exaggerated turn. It’s a familiar, comforting scene — the kind of moment Quinn usually soaks in without a second thought.

But tonight, his mind is a thousand miles away.

You can feel the tension humming beneath his relaxed posture, the subtle way his fingers tighten around yours every few minutes, like he’s trying to ground himself. His gaze keeps darting to his parents — catching the glint of Ellen’s wedding band as she leans forward in her chair, the crinkle of Jim’s eyes as he laughs at his own joke.

He wants to tell them. You can see it in the way his lips press together, his chest rising and falling with a slow, deliberate breath as though he’s rehearsing the words in his head.

We’re having a baby.

It’s right there, sitting on the tip of his tongue, waiting for the perfect moment. 

Quinn shifts in his seat, his free hand sliding up to rub the back of his neck as he leans forward slightly. You can feel the faint tremor in his grip as he laces his fingers tighter with yours, like he’s steadying himself for something big.

Jim’s voice carries on in the background, the rich cadence of his story weaving effortlessly with Ellen’s laughter, but Quinn’s focus isn’t there anymore. His gaze is fixed on the table, the firelight catching in his eyes as he takes a deep, deliberate breath.

You recognise the signs immediately. The way his shoulders draw back just slightly, the faint movement of his lips like he’s practicing the words in his head. It’s coming — you can feel it in the subtle shift of his energy, the way his knee bounces once under the table before he stills it with a hand.

He glances at you, and in the flicker of his gaze, you see everything — the love, the nerves, the overwhelming weight of what he wants to say. 

Your expression softens, and you give his hand a gentle squeeze, a quiet I’m here. You’ve got this.

Quinn swallows, his throat working against the knot of emotion rising there. 

“So, uh,” he starts, his voice low and hesitant, barely cutting through the warmth of the room.

Ellen turns toward him, her smile easy and expectant, and Jim sets his drink down, his brows lifting in quiet curiosity.

It’s right there. The words are sitting at the edge of his lips, just waiting to fall out. We’re having a baby.

But they don’t.

Quinn falters, his mouth opening slightly before he closes it again, his jaw tightening as he drops his gaze to his lap. His hand squeezes yours, and the quiet pressure feels like an apology.

Ellen’s eyes flit between the two of you, a flicker of concern crossing her face. 

“What is it, sweetheart?” she asks gently, her voice laced with the kind of maternal intuition that always catches him off guard.

He looks up at her, his lips curving into a faint, practiced smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Nothing,” he says softly, shaking his head. “Just... it’s good to be home. That’s all.”

You watch as Ellen’s concern melts into warmth, her smile returning as she reaches over to squeeze his arm affectionately. 

“Well, we’re glad you’re here, too,” she says simply, her love for him evident in every word.

Quinn nods, his gaze falling back to his lap, and you can see the frustration flickering just beneath the surface. He’s upset with himself — not because he doesn’t want to tell them, but because he does. Desperately. He just… can’t.

You lean into him slightly, your shoulder brushing his, and when he looks at you, you offer the smallest smile. He exhales slowly, his grip on your hand relaxing just a bit, and when Jim launches into another story, the tension eases from Quinn’s shoulders — if only for a moment.

The second opportunity comes the next morning, when the day feels impossibly slow and golden, like it’s giving Quinn every chance in the world to speak up. The two of you lie in bed longer than usual, the soft morning light filtering through the curtains as you talk quietly, voices still hushed with sleep.

“We can’t leave without telling them,” Quinn says suddenly, his voice quiet but resolute, like the realisation is finally settling in. His gaze is fixed somewhere on the ceiling, his brow furrowed in thought, the weight of his words pulling his shoulders just a little tighter. “I just… I want to do it right, you know?”

“I get it,” you reply, turning your head to look at him. His profile is soft in the morning light, his jaw flexing slightly as he wrestles with the thought. “You want it to feel special.”

“Yeah,” he murmurs, his lips twitching into a faint, almost sheepish smile. “Exactly. And every time I think about actually saying it, I freeze. Like, what if I screw it up and it’s not as perfect as I want it to be?”

You can’t help the way your heart squeezes a little at the vulnerability in his voice, the honesty of it catching you off guard in the best way. Sliding a little closer, you prop yourself up on one elbow, your hand brushing lightly against his arm. The movement pulls his attention, and for a moment, his eyes flicker to yours before settling back on the ceiling.

“Quinn,” you say softly, your voice laced with affection, “they’re going to love it. It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to be you.”

He doesn’t respond right away, the words settling over him like a quiet balm. His jaw flexes again as he chews on your reassurance, his hand absently dropping to your abdomen. It’s such a natural gesture, like he doesn’t even realise he’s done it, his palm curving gently over the barely-there swell. 

The corners of his lips twitch, like he’s debating whether to believe you. Then he lets out a soft laugh, low and self-deprecating, his free hand coming up to rake through his already-messy hair.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“Because it is easy,” you insist, squeezing his arm lightly, your gaze steady on him. “It’s you, Quinn. They’re going to be over the moon no matter how or when you tell them.”

His eyes flick to yours then, something unspoken passing between you — a quiet thank you, maybe, or just an acknowledgment that he’s holding onto your words a little tighter than he lets on. His thumb brushes a slow, thoughtful circle against your skin, and you can feel the tension in his shoulders ease, if only just a little.

“Don’t worry, you’ll tell them today,” you murmur. There’s a quiet encouragement in your voice, a steady belief that seems to seep right into him. Your fingers trace lazy circles over the back of his hand where it rests on your belly.

Quinn nods, his lips twitching into a small, tentative smile. It’s not the full-blown confidence he probably wishes he had, but it’s something — a flicker of determination breaking through the haze of nerves.

“Yeah,” he says softly, the single word carrying more resolve than hesitation. “I will.”

He sounds ready. You believe him. So does he.

And so the morning unfolds beautifully. Ellen, with her usual warmth and efficiency, packs coffee and snacks into a little canvas bag, insisting with a bright smile that everyone take advantage of the clear weather to walk the trails. There’s a lightness to her tone, a sense of simple joy that seems to catch on everyone as they prepare to head out.

Out in the forest, the world feels peaceful, quiet but alive. The rustle of leaves underfoot mingles with the occasional chirp of a bird or the soft swish of wind through the trees. The trail is dappled with sunlight, patches of golden light breaking through the canopy above. Quinn walks beside you, his shoulder bumping yours every now and then as the two of you amble along.

He’s quiet at first, his hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, but there’s a softness to him that doesn’t feel like nervousness — it feels like he’s soaking it all in. The crisp air, the sound of his parents chatting a few paces ahead, the steady rhythm of your steps beside him.

“You good?” you ask softly, nudging him with your elbow. Your breath fogs slightly in the cool air, and he glances over at you, his lips quirking into a small smile.

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low but steady. And for a while, it feels like he means it.

At the overlook at the end of the trail that feels perfect, too. The sunlight glints off the trees, the breeze is cool and gentle, and his parents are close, their laughter light as Ellen unpacks the thermos of coffee. You can feel the moment hanging there, just waiting for Quinn to take it.

He squeezes your hand gently, his thumb brushing slow circles over your knuckles. You glance up at him, catching the way his jaw tightens just slightly, his lips pressing together like he’s rehearsing the words in his head.

“Now’s a good time,” you say softly, tilting your head toward him. Your voice is quiet, meant just for him, but there’s an encouragement in it that you hope will nudge him past whatever’s holding him back.

Quinn nods, his shoulders straightening a little as he draws in a breath. 

His gaze flicks over to his parents, who are standing a few feet away, cups of steaming coffee in their hands as they admire the view. They’re relaxed, happy. Completely unsuspecting.

For a moment, it feels like he’s going to do it. He takes a step forward, clearing his throat softly, and both Ellen and Jim glance over at him. 

“What is it, Quinn?” Ellen asks, her voice warm, a smile playing on her lips.

You watch as Quinn’s hand flexes at his side, his fingers twitching like he’s trying to grab hold of the words before they slip away. 

“I—” he starts, but then his gaze falters, dropping to the ground for a fraction of a second. He hesitates, just long enough for the nerves to creep in.

Jim’s brow lifts slightly, his smile curious. “Everything okay?”

Quinn freezes, his jaw working as if he’s wrestling with the weight of the moment. You see the exact second he decides against it — the subtle shift in his stance, the way his eyes dart back to the view like he’s searching for an escape.

“Yeah,” he says finally, his voice low but steady. “Yeah, everything’s good.”

There’s a beat of quiet, and then Ellen laughs lightly, her attention shifting back to her cup. 

“Good,” she says, clearly not noticing the undercurrent of tension. “Come have some coffee before it gets cold.”

Jim watches Quinn for a second longer, his gaze thoughtful, but he doesn’t press. He just claps a hand on Quinn’s shoulder as he passes, squeezing lightly. 

Quinn exhales slowly, his shoulders sagging just slightly as he turns back to you. His lips twitch into a faint, sheepish smile, and he shrugs like he’s trying to laugh it off. But you know him too well to buy it.

You don’t say anything, just lean into his side a little, the warmth of him grounding in a way words wouldn’t be.

“Just… not yet,” he murmurs, his voice low, almost like he’s saying it to himself more than to you.

You nod, giving his hand another squeeze, a quiet reassurance passing between you. 

“It’s okay,” you murmur, your voice just as soft. “You’ll know when the time’s right.”

He breathes out slowly, his gaze flickering back to the view for a moment before settling on his parents again. And even though the moment passes, and the group begins to move again, their laughter breaking through the quiet hum of the forest, you can feel it. The way his hand tightens slightly around yours. The way his shoulders stay just a little too tense as you walk.

He’s still building up to it, you know that. But he’s getting closer.

Back at the house, the moment arises again, this time while everyone is lounging in the living room after lunch. Quinn sits beside you on the couch, one hand cradling his coffee mug, the other resting on your thigh. His parents are across from you, their chairs pulled close to the fire, and the warmth of the room feels almost tangible, a gentle weight of familiarity and love.

He’s relaxed now, leaning back into the cushions, his gaze sweeping over the room like he’s soaking it all in. His hand tightens slightly on your leg, and you glance at him, catching the way his eyes flicker with something you recognise — nerves, anticipation, resolve.

Ellen catches his eye and smiles, tilting her head slightly. “What’s on your mind, Quinn? You’ve been out of sorts today.”

Your heart skips, and you sit up just slightly, willing him forward with the quiet encouragement in your expression. 

This is it. He’s going to say it. You can feel it.

He clears his throat, straightening a little. “Just... uh,” he starts, his voice steady but hesitant. He glances at you, then back at his mom, and his lips twitch into a small, uncertain smile. “Just thinking how I’m gonna miss this when we leave,” he finishes, his tone light but not entirely convincing.

Your shoulders relax, a mix of understanding and disappointment flooding you as you press your knee gently against his. Quinn glances at you, his jaw tightening as he picks up on your unspoken it’s okay. Next time.

Ellen smiles warmly, tilting her head in that soft, motherly way. “It’s not long until Christmas,” she reminds him, though her voice carries a faint wistfulness, like she’s reminding herself too.

Quinn nods. “Yeah,” he says softly. “Not long.”

The following morning unfolds in the quiet, unhurried way that comes after a weekend of family time, everyone savouring these last hours together. The kitchen is warm and familiar, filled with the smell of coffee and the soft sounds of Ellen moving around, flipping pancakes on the griddle. Jim leans against the counter by the sink, drying dishes, while you’re perched on a stool at the island, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of tea. Quinn stands a little apart, leaned back against the counter with a piece of toast in hand, his damp hair sticking up in every direction, evidence of a quick shower.

The conversation drifts easily — something about Jim’s plans for the yard that afternoon, Ellen’s pancake technique, a joke about Luke’s questionable cooking skills. But Quinn is quiet, and not in the usual, thoughtful way. His eyes flick between his parents, to you, and back again, a pattern he’s been repeating all weekend. You know he’s been carrying the weight of the news, the excitement and nerves tangling together, keeping him from saying it despite countless opportunities.

And then, just like that, it happens.

“We have something to tell you,” he says, his voice steady but quiet enough that it cuts through the easy flow of conversation. 

The kitchen stills, all eyes turning toward him. Ellen pauses mid-flip, the spatula poised over the griddle, while Jim straightens from his spot near the sink, his brow furrowing slightly.

“What is it?” Ellen asks, her voice soft but expectant, her gaze darting between you both.

Quinn shifts slightly, his toast forgotten on the counter behind him. His hand brushes over the back of his neck, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s going to back out again, if the nerves will win one last time. 

But then he glances at you, his expression searching, and you nod gently, giving him the encouragement he’s been looking for.

“We’re having a baby,” he says, the words tumbling out in a rush but steady, sure. His voice catches just slightly at the end, but his eyes stay locked on his parents, watching as the meaning sinks in.

For a moment, the room is silent. Ellen stares at him, her eyes wide and unblinking, her hand coming up to her mouth. Jim’s towel stills mid-fold in his hands, his gaze flicking to you as if for confirmation. And then Ellen gasps — a sound so full of joy and disbelief it feels like it fills the entire room.

“Oh my God,” Ellen whispers, her voice trembling as her hand covers her mouth. Her eyes dart between Quinn and you, wide and shimmering with emotion. “A baby? You’re having a baby?” She looks at you then, as if she needs your confirmation to believe it’s true.

Quinn nods, and the soft, tentative smile that had been tugging at his lips finally breaks free. It spreads wide, unstoppable, lighting up his entire face. 

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low and steady but filled with something raw and achingly real. “We’re having a baby.”

His words hang in the air, and for a moment, the world feels suspended, as if the house itself is holding its breath. Then Ellen moves, her emotions bursting forth as she crosses the kitchen in a blur, her arms outstretched. She pulls Quinn into a fierce hug, her laugh bubbling up through a flood of tears.

“Oh, Quinn,” she says, her voice breaking with joy. “A baby. My baby’s having a baby.” Her hands cradle his face for a moment before she hugs him again, tighter this time, as if she can pour every ounce of love she feels into him.

He laughs softly, wrapping his arms around her as his chin rests against the top of her head. “Thanks, Mom,” he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion.

When Ellen pulls back, her focus shifts immediately to you. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” she says, rounding the island with tears streaming down her face. “A baby. Oh, I’m so happy for you.” She pulls you into a tight hug, her warmth and joy washing over you in waves. “You’re going to be incredible parents. Both of you.”

Jim moves forward more slowly, his hand landing firmly on Quinn’s shoulder as a wide smile spreads across his face. 

“This is incredible news, son,” he says, his voice steady but with an unmistakable quiver of emotion. “Congratulations. To both of you.”

Quinn exhales then, properly exhales, like the weight of all his nerves and hesitations has finally lifted. 

For the rest of the morning, the kitchen hums with joy. Ellen flits between the stove and you, her emotions spilling over every time she catches Quinn’s eye. She can’t seem to stop smiling, crying, or imagining the tiny new addition to the family. 

“How have you been feeling?” she asks, her eyes searching yours with a mother’s concern. “If you need anything, you’ll let me know, right?”

Her hand briefly brushes over your arm, the gesture warm and reassuring, and you nod, assuring her that you’ve been well, that Quinn has been attentive, that everything is as it should be. It’s impossible not to smile at the way her joy bubbles over, filling every corner of the kitchen like sunlight.

Quinn, for his part, has shed every trace of hesitation. He talks easily now, the nerves replaced by an earnest kind of excitement. He shares the small details — the due date, how you found out, how ready the two of you feel — and every word seems to deepen the pride in Jim’s expression. He stands quietly nearby, his presence grounding and constant, his smile unwavering.

When it’s finally time to leave, the hugs linger. Ellen pulls Quinn close, whispering something through her tears before letting him go to hold you just as tightly. Jim’s hand finds Quinn’s shoulder again, squeezing it once in a way that says everything without words. There’s an unspoken promise in their goodbyes, a warmth that stays even as the front door closes behind you.

Quinn doesn’t say much as he helps you into the car, his hand brushing over your back as he opens the door. But as he settles into the driver’s seat, he glances back at the house one last time, his expression soft, a little dazed. When he turns to you, his smile is quiet, content, the kind that makes your heart ache in the best way. 

As you drive away, the crisp Michigan air shifting through the windows, his hand finds yours. His thumb brushes over your knuckles in that familiar, absent minded way, and you realise that for the first time all weekend, there’s nothing holding him back. The weight is gone, replaced by something steadier — joy, contentment, and the simple knowledge that everything is exactly as it should be.

[themareverine]

WILD MAN

─ Logan Howlett x fem!OC

summary: Blizzards and pane glass windows—typical for a Thursday night at Laughlin City's favorite haunt. Until the Wolverine walks in, and hell hath no fury like a man ravaged by jealousy.

warnings: language, possessive behavior, angst, jealousy, implied sexual content, established relationship from my Mare & the Wolverine series.

a/n: i don't know what this is, really. went to write a different oneshot and it turned into this. guess my brain needed some jealous Logan. reposted from my deactivated account.

MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION

Inky midnights glare through the windows of Laughlin’s oldest haunt as the season’s thick, wet snow falls in an almost sideways blanket. The bar is flatlined, almost asystole. Heavy bass, thanks to Huey Lewis and the News, thunks from the stereo system like a jackhammer against her skull, trying to fill space that bodies aren’t.

Stale cigarettes and fried food in the air mingled with the highschool smell of sweat and testosterone, which may as well have been painted to the walls they were so familiar. Sticky floor, slick bartop, chipped tile in the bathroom—common ghosts for nearly eleven thirty on a Thursday night.

“Really comin’ down, ain’t it?” 

It’s more the sudden spike of cold overflow from the tap that jars Mare McAffery from attempting to glance around her reflection from the pane glass window. Surprised, she startles, slapping at the tap’s toggle before her fingers curl around the chilled glass. Slick with foam as it sloshes over the rim carelessly to the mix of drinks that have already found their fate on the floor at her feet. It isn’t her night. The lack of business has her brain running, her thoughts anywhere but here on a Thursday night among the snow, cigarette smoke, and canisters of beer she needs to change in back. 

She’d rather be home. Bundled in blankets, wool socks. Watching the kick of fireplace flames from the safe brace of Logan—just Logan. All of Logan. His arms, that absolutely breathtaking chest that ripples with life and hard muscle and heat. Feeling the rise and fall of his every breath, how the fresh wash of her hair tangoes with his heady scent of whiskey and cigar, wood and snow.

Feeling the warmth of his feet toying with hers under blankets as they stretch out towards flame, listening to the rich way he chuckles every time his nose brushes against the back of her ear. How his rough fingers pull through her cropped curls, teasingly carding as he dares to whisper about his day against the curve of her ear—-

She jumps when the edge of the bar comes up a little too quickly against her hip. Her heart shellshocks against her ribs like a violent engine. Feeling flushed, she bites the inside of her cheek. Lathes her tongue against the front of her bottom teeth. Praying to God the low light hides the color on her face seems fruitless, but it's there. 

Reaching for a bar napkin, her smile is slow as she slides the beer in front of Laughlin’s foremost gossip, affectionately christened Flappin’ Jim by the town’s population. No less than four decades her senior, stringy silver hair peeks out from beneath a nearly-threadbare Carhartt beanie, stained with what could only be assumed was engine oil. Jim has owned the zip code’s only machine shop longer than she’s been alive. 

She shrugs a shoulder when he mentions the snow a second time. “When isn’t it snowing up here?” The squared-off toe of her western boots scuff the floor cooler behind the bar as she reaches for Jim’s ever-requested cocktail straw, plopping it in the dark amber of his lager before his parted lips could continue, “I’ve seen my fair share of the white stuff—but never like this. You know how they say everything is bigger in Texas?” Jim chuckles, nodding as his tongue seeks out the straw, his gaze never leaving her, “Well, I swear to God, everything is colder and thicker in Laughlin.”

His laugh comes from his chest, phlegm from forty years of smoking Player’s. “Forget it’s your first snow with us, poor thing,” Jim waves a hand between the two of them, brows bobbing suggestively as his grin widens enough to reveal half-rotten mid-to-back teeth, “iffin’ you’re thinkin’ you need a ride home, darlin’, ol’ Jim’s got room for two on the old snowmobile—” 

Her brain nearly melts at the absolute atrocity of a mental picture that statement provides. She could think of not a single thing worse than going to the door with Flappin’ Jim, much less riding an hour west on a snowmobile in little more than jean’s and a leather jacket. Laughlin’s poster child for bad decisions and alcoholism. Perfect. 

Informing him of her lack of proper gear was the kind out. “Thanks for the offer, though, Jim,” her nose scrunches a little as she works at the try-a-hundred-times-a-day-but-still-nothing stain practically etched into the oak grains of the bartop, “Logan’s coming to get me, he knew the snow would be bad. Dropped me off this morning before work.” It’s nonchalant—surely women were dropped off and picked up by their boyfriend’s during bad snow in Laughlin. 

Never mind working a double, Jim’s brows popped tall as if it were an entirely new concept straight out of a Stephen King skincrawler. “Wild Man’s comin’ all the way down the mountain in this shitstorm?”

His thumb goes over his shoulder, despite evidence of his claim hanging in the window to his three o’clock left. He whistles over his shoulder for his buddy, Kenneth, to listen up. 

Kenneth’s head raises with interest, like a meerkat rising from his hole. “Lord’a mighty, Kenny boy—you was right, mus’ be better than’w thought!” 

More vapid laughter has Jim, and now Kenneth, hacking up a lung from their respective seats. 

Whatever population’s in the bar—eight souls —turns to look at her, snickering and the twist of their upturned lips all but nailing her to the back wall. Like looking from the outside in. May as well have all been pointing fingers at her—and, unsure whether her gaze should fall to Jim or past him to Kenneth, her raised brows opted to consider the older man sweeping his hat off his head.

Unwashed hair nearly glistening with what she can only assume is grease and oil, a thought that makes her stomach rise up to kiss the base of her ribs. His laughter turns raucous as his eyes skim over her, hazed. 

Swallowing a splash of stomach acid, her brow furrows hard behind the bridge of her glasses. 

“Pardon?” 

Wringing the bar rag through her hands, Mare ultimately realizes how this makes her look. Tosses it aside. Stands a little taller, wants to look down her nose at Jim, but realizes she’s shorter than he is, perched on a stool. More wind howls, biting at the bricks, flecks of snow tick tick ticking against the pane glass windows outside in the dark. Working a double has never felt so dehumanizing—she could melt into the floor right now. Whether from the tired headache blooming behind her eyes or the full attention from the bar, she’s not sure. 

A sharp smack! of Jim’s hand against the bartop makes her jump. “Oh come on, honeybunch,” the low accent matches every step that Kenneth, now, manages as he stumbles over to lean a plump hip against the bar. “E’ryone knows no mountain man like Logan Howlett comes off the mountain for just anythin’—‘less he’s gettin’ head,” Eyes skate her over her, visually-stimulated from top to bottom, ultimately parking at the cut of her tank top as he sloshes back the rest of his bottled MGM, “just how it works, sugartits.”

His eyes remain welded to her chest, but her jaw has long since lost its hinge. Any second now it would start creaking like a rusty gate, bone raking against bone. Opening and closing, like a fish choking on air. Slack and openmouthed, she blinks through the little flecks of dirt on the lens of her glasses, brain short circuiting to assimilate just how absolutely crude of a statement has just landed between her eyes like a stone to Goliath. 

Words don’t find her for a full handful of minutes before Jim and Kenneth’s attention are drawn away. Onto other conversation, this time bear hunting stories and the back-and-forth of rifles. Throat burning, like the inferno sands of Moab. Every sticky string of saliva moisture in her mouth is tapped dry, she attempts to raise spit on her tongue, to swallow. Virginal heat chases up her neck like a predator, sinking teeth into her confidence. Fans across her decolletage and collarbones. 

Queasy, embarrassment spins a weave down her spine and through her guts like a snake. Reminds her that wolves of the world so often hunt the lines of the innocent perimeters she’d fought hard to preserve—did everyone in town think she was sleeping with Logan? Like a broken record it spins, wobbling on the needle, screeching and clawing deep into the lines of her psyche. 

Years as a preacher’s daughter had provided her a certain level of naivete, certainly—-never ignorance. Wasn’t dull to the world beyond innocence, outside the lines of the pure and spotless idea of Christ and His church. She knew the world was spiraling, hell and brimstone around every corner. All parlor tricks and open gates, brazen. Like a painted woman in scarlets and pearls—or a drunk on a barstool at quarter-too. 

Mare hadn’t expected this level of forward. This, gall. Audacity. Snapping teeth of a big junkyard dog trying to look tough and scare her into shock—that’s what this was. Provocative, seeking a response. Gasoline on a snapping fire. Enough to make a harlot blush, and Jim knew it—it’s in the way he guzzles hops like his veins crave it, eyes following her even through the bottom of his glass.

He’d blurted what she’d suspected everyone in town to think, and for half of a breath, she wasn’t sure how to feel. Flushed and embarrassed, a given. 

Defiance lands like an airliner in her blood. Surprising, but not wholly unwarranted. Jaw setting with force enough to shatter the world, the heel of her boot grinds into the sticky floor as she turns to busy herself with empties. Glass cries out as she stacks them in the crook of her arm, fingers grabbing for whatever she can manage to stalk back to the kitchen.

Her heart pistons between her ribs like it’s been dropped into an Indy car, eyes flitting to and fro behind the bar. Anger. There's lots and lots of anger.

For handfuls of seconds she scours for a response. Something smart, smarmy—will fly in the face of what everyone in this town had been thinking about her since her boots had hit the province.

What Jim has actually implied—it burns. Like hot coals. For months she’d been walking the flames of the rumors; innocent little preacher’s daughter from the States.

“Y’even know how to spell ‘fuck’, darlin’?”

Far too busy brushing her dirty hands on the back of her jeans, Mare doesn’t even hear the squeak of Jim’s barstool swivel, “Well, I’ll be damned—if it isn’t the man of the mountain. How goes it, Logan?”

More snickering, and she about-faces, all-soldier as relief hitches itself like a wagon team to one of her ribs. 

Jim’s brows bounce over her direction, his look provocative enough to make her want to vomit right there on the floor.

Continuing his thought, he scoots his empty to her with his knuckles, “Come to fetch our pretty little Miss Minnesota here, eh, boy?” Another wet cough grates across her nerves like nails to blackboard, “Looks like you were right, babygirl—s’told us you’d be makin’ your way in, Logan. Didn’t quite believe ‘er, but wonders never cease I reckon.” His nose scrunches as she passes him another pint glass, “Was about to keep little girlie here all to m’self.” 

The line of her jaw twitches with how tight she’s clenching her teeth together, and it takes herculean will not to shoot off at the mouth—a trait she’s less than proud of. Thanks, Dad.

And it’s laughable how Jim is so quick to assume age, Logan’s raised brow in response shows it. At nearly 200 years old, he’s beyond surprise. Maybe, nearly. Closer than any part of her would like to admit, though nobody would know it—he doesn’t look a day over thirty-five. 

A little tick of contained smile at the corner of his mouth is enough to make her forget her name.  His dark eyes, calculating and deep, hold her gaze a few heartbeats. Logan reads her like an open book, an interested investigator—always has. She breaks first. Looks away, wiping at the sweat bubbling up on her brow. 

His sparkling, steady eyes flash with something she can’t identify before darting back to Jim. Logan’s hum of suspicion is warm. Low, too low. Medicinal honey, going straight to the center of her femininity like nothing could. Lord, if it didn’t set every bone in her body to gelatinous flame—she sucked in a breath that stabbed at the mesh of her lungs as he settled against the bar.  

He leans against the corner of the bar like he owns it, and he may as well have—out of the way and almost bleeding into the shadows of invisibility, he rests an elbow to the worn wood. A hand reaches to brush the wet of the storm from the sheepswool of his coat. Kisses of snow melt from his beard, ebony hair almost as quickly as they’d entangled—she doesn’t miss the blush that cold has left on his nose. 

“Is that right?” Leaning a bit heavier on his arm, his lips tip up in an amused little way that sets off fireworks in the depths of her womb, reminding her of organs long forgotten. “Good thing I’m a man of my word.” Toe-over-toe she slips to a stop across the bar from him, reaching for a half glass that’s almost too cold between her sweating palms. 

Logan pivots to face her, eyeballing her with a cool smile. Her usually-bright greeting is quiet, “Please sit. You’re ordering a whiskey.” It’s a demand, not a request.

Anything to keep her hands busy, to keep her from noticing how Kenneth hasn’t stopped ogling her tits since he sat down next to Jim, deep in his drink and fully, entirely out of his mind. 

“Just one?” Let no man say Logan Howlett isn’t keen. “Hi.” And just like that, he changes gears. Keeps her guessing, like always. Mysterious as the shadow, bright as the sun.

Elbow planted on the walnut bar, his brows bounce as his finger crooks. Come. 

Resting her hands at either side of his glass, she leans across the wood slowly. Considering him through low lashes, her heart swells at the way his tongue fills the pocket of his lower lip, considering. Hungry, almost.  Possessive.

He makes her forget Jim, and Kenneth, and anything resembling breathing in flatline seconds.

Logan’s eyes flick to her mouth, in a tantalizing, only–the-stuff-of-Hollywood way as her bottom lip curls in, a little sheepishly. Nose to nose, the bite of cigar smoke lingering about his beard is dizzying—a scent of fresh pine clings to his clothes. He smells of snow and man, just as he should. 

“Hi.” Little more than a breath and he closes daylight between them, lips brushing hers in a soft and slow hello. Smiling into his kiss, she sinks back to her feet behind the bar. Fingers curl into the wood beneath her palms. 

Changing gears, Mare reaches for a bag of clean bar rags and begins folding. “How was your day on the mountain?” 

His finger traces the rim of his whiskey glass and he shrugs a shoulder. “Peachy,” he takes a drink. She keeps looking over to Jim and Kenneth, who haven't stopped looking, and takes notices.

Logan's glass finds the counter again but his hand doesn’t lift from it, content to linger in the droplets of sweat. Simple, cleancut. Like always.

Then, “What’s wrong.” 

It isn’t a question—as her eyes cut up from her work to look at him, his are open and waiting. Seeking. Ever since she’d known him he was always watching, waiting; seeking something. 

He’d said once that he’d been looking for her all his life—her innocence. Purity. And it was no different, right now. Just now, he hunted the demons creeping inside her head, sitting invisible on her shoulder instead of the crisp light she usually carried. Nothing about him belies the name he gave himself, the name he carries nestled beneath his shirt on adamantium dogtags and numbers. 

The Wolverine—her Wolverine.

The sound of it, inward and out, snaps like a whip even months later. It suits him in such a way she’ll never fully describe, that poetry could never adjective. Thirty-two days of her calling Logan Howlett her own and it felt little more than a fairytale, her own Cinderella story lost to fantastical girlish dreams and giggles. A little over a month since he’d asked if she wanted to “go steady,” since she’d giggled at him like a child, “Nobody says that anymore, Lo,” and his “Wanna start?” had her—has her, to this very breath—unable to think straight. 

She lies.

“Nothing.”

Too quick to be truthful, she turns to replace a bottle of Bulleit, its glass lightly clattering against its brethren on the mirrored shelf. Her eyes flutter closed and she releases an uneasy breath, disappointed in her response—Logan wouldn’t take no for an answer. Never had, since she’d known him. 

A snippet of the night she’d met him races through her brain like a racehorse. “You should let me take a look.”  

“I’m fine,” She’d been too quick—too defensive. Good lies always bare a little truth in between their teeth, but—she’d always been a bad liar. A sheep amongst wolves. Or, rather, wolverines. 

“Bullshit. Needs stitches, we both know it—you’ve been workin’ the cage long enough to know the difference. Can’t let you go without a look.”  His look had been unmovable, like the earth. Understanding of her plight, her hesitance for an almost-stranger to look her over. Gentile as she’d sank low on a barstool to accept a beer from him.

Gentlemanlike, walking her through the steps—careful with his hands. Hands that hold her world, hands that could cut through stone. Aware of her nerves, but unrelenting all the same. 

His dark eyes narrow at her just so, his nose scrunching a little as he checks her reflection in the mirror. Much to her relief, Logan drops the subject. And she can see, in the reflection, he isn’t all too thrilled with dodging the question.

Knowing what topic of conversation would be on the ride up the mountain didn’t take rocket science, and she wilts inside knowing that honesty hadn’t been her first blush.

Two thunks on the bar have her checking her shoulder. Jim, signaling for another beer.

“‘Nother here, sugartits—make ‘er tall and strong, gotta get me home in one piece, y’know.” Jim’s smile is toothy, lopsided as he goes to the effort to lift his ass out of his seat. Passing by without so much as a nod, she swipes the glass from out in front of him. 

And before Kenneth’s hand is at his shoulder, Jim’s palm smacks across her ass cheek. Hard enough that it thwacks! against the pockets of her jeans.

It catches her off guard. Nobody had ever so much as ogled her ass to her knowledge, much less actually touched it—the pint glass falls from her fingers. Hits the boards of the wooden floor, the thick glass shattering to big pieces, low before her feet as if she’s some goddess worth breaking over.

A little breathless, she stumbles over her square-toed boots. Fingers curl into the wood until her knuckles are white. At first there’s anger, then embarrassment that hits her like an overloaded tractor trailer. Fluster ruffles her feathers like a wet hen, and she considers the broken glass at her feet. 

Audacity to laugh at the red bouncing to life on her cheeks has Jim roaring with laughter, unaware of what sin he’s just committed—her fingers are brushing the first big piece of jagged glass when she hears the swivel of a stool. The thunk of boots hitting the floor.

And before she can even begin to piece together what she suspects, she pops tall from behind the bar at the exact moment Jim’s laugh becomes a strangled wheeze. 

Collar snugged up too tight against his throat, Jim gags for air, tongue poking between fat lips as spit collects in the corners of his mouth. Breathing steadily, the crest and fall of Logan’s chest is evidence that he is on the raw and bleeding edge of composure—if his dark glare could be considered composed.

Brow little more than a hard line, his gaze narrows in Jim’s face as he leans in, lips curling in an almost animalistic snarl. 

“Logan,” Mare’s hiss is low, eyes skirting about the eight bodies that have almost backflipped up from their seats scattered about the bar, “Logan. Please—put ‘im down.” Murmurs have overtaken the air like quiet demons, they are no longer their own spectacle. 

Jim manages what sounds like the-hell-d’ya-think-yer-doin’, which produces a low rumble from somewhere in the base of Logan’s chest. Dark eyes cut to her, sweeping over her frame as she discards the chunk of glass to the small sink to her right. Heart pounding unlike anything she’d ever felt in her chest, bludgeoning the soft flesh of her lungs, she sucks in a stale breath that does nothing to ease the fire that seems to throb beneath her skin—sweat has replaced any semblance of chill in the room. Oxygen may as well be a hope. Tank top sticking to the flesh between her shoulder blades, her tongue nervously darts over her front teeth, eyes to Logan’s ironclad grip at Jim’s shirt collar. 

Logan doesn’t relent. Instead, she notices the cord of muscle in his arm tighten. Even beneath the shield of a coat, the mask of humanity —and she knows. His opposite hand lifts in Jim's face, and she's counting heartbeats before familiar adamantium splits skin wide open, bleeding with rage.

Adrenaline snaps into her blood like a whip, and she’s around the bar at his side in no more than a heartbeat or two. Hands at his arm. Fingers curling into the denim of his clothing. Met with hard muscle, he may as well have been cut from marble—an Adonis of power and strength unlike anything she’d ever seen.

The white’s of Jim’s eyes are all but tracking, brimming with terror as Logan snarls—actually snarls—down into his face. Possessive rage clouds any semblance of humanity left in his face—it’s all Wolverine. 

The Wolverine. Her Wolverine. Out from the shadows, out from any corner anyone had ever shoved him in—out to fight. To kill. For her. All for her, all for them, all for this.

She can’t put a full finger on the power of this honor, this…privilege. And that’s what it is, really—loving him is privilege. Is honor, only imaginable and dreamstate for girls like her. Everyday girls with little to offer, with little hopes for the next day other than to survive, to pray.

But Logan, somehow, had seen her—had seen her enough to care and care deeply, to his bones, adamantium bones he wars every second of the day to mummify, contain.  

Truth of the matter hits her like a stone between the eyes—it doesn’t matter how deeply Wolverine is buried within Logan’s sarcophagus of self control, his ability to walk the lines of his anger. Logan would kill for her, over nothing at all. It’s right here, right now, plain as the nose on her face—splayed out like prey, easy prey ready for the slaughter.

Logan would, could, destroy a man over a simple drunken act of flirtatiousness. If it meant her pleasure. 

What a position of power, indeed.

And Mare isn’t certain if it's love or power—if it’s even human.

Humanity wins. Logan's grip on Jim’s collar releases. Jim scurries away foot-over-foot, gasping for air, her realizing this is honestly much less complicated than matters of love, power. Both are players, but never common denominators.

A wolverine, after all, doesn’t fit into just one category—he’s both predator and prey. To something larger, to something smaller. 

This is just, very simply, Logan. 

Fisting and unfisting his fingers, he studies his hand as if it is otherworldly and not a part of his anatomy. After a few beats, Logan turns to face her. Jim is across the bar, a few hands clapping his back to check on him—as if he isn’t the offense of the entire situation.

Pressing into Logan, she rests her cheek against his chest, arms circling him in a hard embrace. He presses her close, a hand on the back of her head, chin coming to rest in her mess of curls. Breathing in his deep sense, her blood begins to cool—earthquaking in the base of her spine begins to dissipate. Colors of the room come alive again, the air suddenly all too breathable. 

Her head tips back to consider his face—unreadable, mostly, save for the glimmer of light in the corners of his eyes. 

The corner of her mouth tips up into a small tick, a heat she can’t describe hanging low in the base of her ribs as his hands lift to hold her face, delicately. As if he couldn't destroy her with a breath, as if he hadn't almost just culled mostly innocent blood.

Calluses rough against her cheeks, she presses into his touch. Firms up her arms around his middle. 

“And there he is,” there’s no malice in her voice, only awe. Care. “Had me worried there for a second, bub.” Smallest hint of a smile at the return use of his favorite jibe from her sends her heart pitching across her chest, as if it’ll take residence on the other side of her ribs.

The line of his jaw relaxes and she nuzzles her nose into the front of his flannel, “Now I get why Riz says ‘no boyfriends at work’—you’re a walking OSHA violation, Logan Howlett.” Unsure if Canada has anything remotely similar to OSHA, she forgets the idea entirely.

He knows, he always knows. 

Sighing into his chest, he fills up her senses on a full, deep breath. “And as much as I should slap you upside your thick head for almost slicing one of my best customers into tiny pieces, I have to say—I like the overprotectiveness,” her fingers gently brush through his beard, head tipped to the side like a curious pup, “a bunch. Like it a lot, Howlett.”  

His fingers in her hair tip her head back to look up at him, again. A low chortle has her blood flaming deep beneath her skin. “Yeah? Seemed a little nervous to me, bub,” he emphasizes the use of the name with a smile, spinning one of her curls around his finger. A gentle tug as her nose scrunches in amusement.

She giggles at the sensation of his fingers playing through her hair, “Flappin’ Jim had what was comin’ to him, that’s all.” 

“Maybe.” And without thinking, “Nobody’s ever stuck up for me like that before, Logan.” 

And there it is, out in the open.

Like the soft underbelly of the mud turtles she’d spotted all summer—-vulnerable. It hangs between them like a prayer. Lines on his face pull into a surprised wrinkle for all of a beat, then something enters his expression she’s never seen before—sorrow, maybe. Compassion, in the way his head cants to the side as he studies her looking at her boots. Just standing there, like a fortress. Unmoving, and resounding. Saying nothing and everything all at once.

Logan’s finger dips beneath her chin to tip her gaze up to his. “Don’t ask me how, but somehow I knew that,” his palm moves to caress her cheek, pad of his thumb gently skipping over the curve of her bottom lip. “You’re worth stickin’ up for, darlin’—I’m honored to be the first one to actually show it.” Two fingers dip into the front pocket of her jeans, shuffling her a few steps closer, until her chest brushes his.

“And let’s hope I’m the last."

Her heart swells to new heights yet unsurpassed by science, maybe even prose. “Who am I to deny the Wolverine?” Lifting on her toes, her nose brushes the seam of his mouth before her arms curl around his neck, his hands soft at the flare of her hips. “I’m yours if you’ll have me, Logan,” biting her lower lip, she fights the urge to smile—can’t, never could.

His kiss is hard. Fast, hungry—rough in the way God Himself intended for man. It’s everything the poets ever described a kiss to be, probably more. Infinitely more, mostly because it was her kiss. Hers, and hers alone. Right here, right now, even if the stars couldn’t see.  

He’s a little breathless when they part. And God, if it doesn’t take her apart. 

“Y’know, Logan—Jim was right about one thing, before he ran his fat mouth off.” 

He chuckles. “Hm?” 

“You really kinda are a wild man.”

[wardensantoineandevka]

For those of you keeping tabs on the Midst comics, Dark Horse has put up a listing for the third and final installment! Midst: Ripples is currently set to be released December 4, 2024 with writer Kendra Wells, artist Vash Taylor, colorists Kelly and Nichole Matthews, and letterer Jim Campbell. Will Kirkby completes the set of covers, after illustrating the first two.

We know, from press releases and comments elsewhere, that this one takes place after the timeline of the podcast. The publisher's summary is as follows:

"We begin and end in darkness. Between the ripples of the Fold, we beg safe passage…" Something bright has landed in the woods beyond the town of Frisk, and strange things begin to happen as a result. Ten-year-old Daggle can't tamp down his curiosity about the unusual light and the changes it creates. While townsfolk fear his interest, it might be the key to everything when others arrive to this nestled little islet within the Fold…

[victusinveritas]

From "THINGS I LEARNED FROM BALLADS" by Jim Macdonald ~

*Don’t ignore warnings. If someone tells you to beware of Long Lankin, friggin’ beware of him.

* If someone tells you not to go by Carterhaugh, stay away. Same goes for your mother asking you not to go out hunting on a particular day.

*Portents about weather, particularly when delivered by an old sailor who is not currently chatting up a country maid, are always worth heeding.

*If someone says that he’s planning to kill you, believe him.

*If someone says he’s going to die, believe him.

*Avoid navigable waterways. Don’t let yourself be talked into going down by the wild rippling water, the wan water, the salt sea shore, the strand, the lowlands low, the Burning Thames, and any area where the grass grows green on the banks of the great North Sea. Cliffs overlooking navigable waterways aren’t safe either.

*Broom, as in the plant, should be given a wide berth.

*Stay away from the greenwood side, too.

*Avoid situations where the obvious rhyme-word is “maidenhead.”

*If you look at the calendar and discover it’s May, stay home.

*The flowing bowl is best quaffed at home. Don’t drink with strangers. Don’t drink alone. Don’t toss the cups or pass the jar about in bars where you haven’t arranged to keep a tab. Drinks of unusual or uncertain provenance should be viewed askance, especially if you’re offered them by charming members of the opposite sex. Finally, never get drunk and pass out in a bar called “Cape Horn.”

*Members of press gangs seldom tell the truth. Recruiting sergeants will fib to you shamelessly. They are not your friends, even if they’re buying the drinks. Especially when they’re buying the drinks.

*If you’re drinking toasts, mention your One True Love early and often.

*If you’re a young lady, dressing yourself in men’s array and joining the army or the navy has all sorts of comic possibilities, but you yourself aren’t going to find it too darned humorous at the time.

*If you are an unmarried lady and have sex, you will get pregnant. No good will come of it.

*If you are physically unable to get pregnant due to being male, the girl you had sex with will get pregnant. No good will come of it. You’ll either kill her, or she’ll kill herself, or her husband/brother/father/uncle/cousin will kill you both. In any case her Doleful Ghost will make sure everyone finds out. You will either get hanged, kill yourself, or be carried off bodily by Satan. Your last words will begin “Come all ye.”

*Going to sea to avoid marrying your sweetie is an option, but if she hangs herself after your departure (and it’s even money that she’s going to) her Doleful Ghost will arrive on board your ship and the last three stanzas of your life will purely suck.

*If you are a young gentleman who had sex it is possible the girl won’t get pregnant. In those rare instances you will either get Saint Cynthia’s Fire or the Great Pox instead. No good will have come of it.

*New York Girls, like Liverpool Judies, like the ladies of Limehouse, Yarmouth, Portsmouth, Gosport, and/or Baltimore, know how to show sailors a good time, if by “good time” you mean losing all your money, your clothes, and your dignity. Note: All of these places are near navigable waterways. In practical terms this means that if you’re a sailor you’re screwed (and so are any young ladies you happen to meet). See also: Great Pox; Doleful Ghost.

*If you are a young lady do not allow young men into your garden. Or let them steal your thyme. Or agree to handle their ramrods while they’re hunting the bonny brown hare. Cuckoo’s nests are right out. And never stand sae the back o’ yer dress is up agin the wa’ (for if ye do ye may safely say yer thing-a-ma-jig’s awa’).

*Never let a stranger teach you a new game. No good will come of it.

*Sharing a boyfriend with your sister is a bad plan.

Having more than one True Love at a time is a non-starter.

*If you’re a brunette, give up.

*Not that being a blonde will improve the odds much.

*If your name is Janet, change it.

[artbyblastweave]

Reread John Dies At The End this weekend, and there’s this one bit that I think really encapsulates the whole vibe of the series. 

In the scene in Las Vegas, when they’re running from the teleporting wig monsters and the group has barricaded themselves behind a door while trying to work out a plan with Marconi, John offhandedly asks why the monsters are bothering to try and brute-force the door when they can just teleport instead. After he says this, the monsters outside stop pounding on the door and are heard murmuring amongst themselves, and the gag is that the monsters themselves didn’t even think to try that until they overheard John. This is actually a fairly boilerplate gag. I’ve seen gags along this line- the heroes accidentally reminding the monsters they’ve got an easy way in- multiple times.

Then one of the monsters immediately teleports in and kills Big Jim.

That’s not an incidental death. Over the course of the novel, Big Jim is revealed to have been one of the first people to figure out the full extent of what’s going on with Korrok’s invasion, he’s revealed to have stunning levels of insight into, and practical experience using the Soy Sauce, and his sister Amy- the last surviving member of the family following his death- is left vulnerable to exploitation by Korrok’s forces at least in part due to his absence, which forms the whole back-half of the novel. Even outside of plot relevance he’s a pretty fleshed-out figure in terms of how he relates to the community of Undisclosed and in John and Dave’s lives specifically. And now he’s dead. The one-off Scooby-doo style whacky-chase scene gag gives way to a genuinely colossal fuck-up on John’s part, a fuck-up with far-reaching implications that get brushed over in the heat of the moment because of the, you know, the incipient hell-fountain. But the innocuous gag mattered! John was careless and it bit him in the ass immediately. And all of the books are threaded through with examples of stock gags that abruptly mutate into something serious, or with heat-of-the-moment, easy-to-overlook fuckups by the protagonists that ripple forward and make the situation even harder to handle. This is such a good series

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

Sweet Escape 1

Warnings: non/dubcon and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

Summary: A strange man crashes into your life.

Characters: Jim Hopper

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Your soles crush the wet twigs as you keep your hand out for balance, slick leaves threatening to slip beneath you. You touch the rough bark of each tree as you make your way toward the loud ripple of the river. The smell of rain lingers and draws you in.

You crest the subtle rise in the forest floor and make your way down to the smooth rock that sits only a few feet away from the river's edge. You set down your basket and take out the beat-up casio and check the tape inside. You keep it at low volume as you hit play, Carole King's tone adds to the ambiance of the space, not overpowering or misplaced, but illuminating what is already there.

You near the water and peer down into the silty floor. Frogs hop in the shallows and minnows wiggle through the depths. You spread out your raincoat in the mud and sit atop it as you open your journal.

You put your head down and set to writing about a land of lost princesses and ravenous trolls. You're hoping for a half-chapter at least and expect to be up half the night typing it. One day, you'll have a full transcript... who knows if it will ever go anywhere after that.

You hum along to the speakers' buzz, the sonorous peace of the space breaking suddenly and violently. You hear the rustle from across the river, somewhere in the trees. You hover your pen above the page as you look up into the gloomy space between the leaning trunks. You never heard of any bears around here.

You cry out as the burly figure runs out and splashes into the water. You snap your book shut and drop your pen as you struggle to stand, stopping yourself only as you realise it isn't some deadly grizzly. It's a man, furiously unbuttoning his shirt and scrubbing at his chest and belly. He throws water over his face and snarls out "blech, damn bastard!"

The putrid skunky smell wafts over to you as you stare. The man grumbles, tilting his head as he searches the river's edge, "what is that noise?" He first squints at you and then the Casio. You blink at him dumbly, he must've got himself sprayed, the skunks always come out after the rains.

"Who are you?" He asks, almost as if he is the lone denizen of the woods. He sure looks like he could reside there with his scruffy facial hair unkempt tufts on his head.

"Um..." you gulp and give your name cluelessly.

"Uh," he seems to remember himself and pulls his flannel shirt shut, hiding the pudge beneath, "I, er, ran into a white-tailed bastard..." he growls and shakes his head at himself, "what am I saying, you don't give a shit. Do you give a shit?"

You look around, put off by his demeanour. You push your shoulders up and give a sheepish smile. You tuck your book under your arm and bend to grab your goat, shaking off the mud.

"I'm sorry," you go to the casio and stop the music, "try tomato juice. For the smell."

"Huh, thanks," he huffs, "didn't mean to scare ya off."

"It's... fine," you utter. You're not used to being disturbed out here, it's the very reason you make the trek.

"Just try to avoid the ravine. That little bugger was hanging out there," he calls to you as you put your things in your basket.

"Thanks, I'll keep an eye out," you mutter.

He doesn't respond, not with more than an agitated grunt and the slosh of him wading back to shore. He grumbles to himself as you set off back down the path. Maybe you could hit the library instead.

[oswaldsfoot]

a/n: Time to meet Eric! Plus, the first peek inside Jim’s head and more hints towards what Ursula’s plans are

summary: They’re both playing a dangerous game with lives on the line, and the only way they’ll survive is if they work together.

rating: teen and up

fandoms: the Little Mermaid, Treasure Planet

tags: canon divergence, historical fantasy, cecalia!Jim, temporarily unrequited love

chap 1 | chap 2 | chap 3

[rosemaidenvixen]

Tales of Arcadia Halloween Fic recs

Any TOA fans out there looking for something spooky to read around Halloween? Well then this is the the list for you! A compilation of my favorite horror and Halloween themed Tales of Arcadia fics. Some of these are safe for all ages, but some do lean hard into horror, so mind the tags and read with caution.

Arcane Blight @avirxy Do you like horror? Do you like Tales of Arcadia? If the answer is yes to both then stop what you're doing and read this. Takes place in an alternate universe where Jim is the new kid in Arcadia, and he quickly realizes that this innocent looking town has dark secrets lurking beneath the surface. To say any more would ruin a lot of the truly gut punching, jaw dropping twists and turns this story has.

The Changeling Masquerade @earth-ambassador-jim Takes place in the author's changeling Toby au. Shows how exactly changelings celebrate Halloween, but with a sinister twist.

Tear Me In Two (The Moonlight Will Anyway) @avirxy Two words. Werewolf Claire. In a monster hunter au Claire gets a nasty bite from a lycanthrope and the whole group struggles with the consequences. One of my all time favorite pieces of werewolf media for the absolutely phenomenal way it explores what it means to unleash the beast within.

Through the Veil @pinkytoothlesso11 This one's just getting started, but holy hell what a start! Jim doesn't given much credibility to Eli's ramblings of monsters and conspiracies in their town, until he witnesses someone he trusts performing a horrific ritual on Halloween night that brings everything he thought he knew into question. Now Jim and his friends are far from home and lost in a world hostile to human kind, and no guarantee that they'll make it home safe.

Something's wrong with Arcadia @earth-ambassador-jim When Jim and team Trollhunters aren't running around causing problems, what does the average Joe think of the strangeness going on in Arcadia? Bular and goblins and changelings shown from a mundane point of view in a way that's absolutely chilling.

31 Days in the Darklands @xdeusxmachinax Not technically a Halloween story, but takes place near and on Halloween with tons of horror and spooky imagery. I always give it a re-read each spooky season. In the wake of an unconventional treaty Strickler struggles to keep balance between Trollmarket, the Janus order, Arcadia, and the Darklands but the universe seems to sabotage him at each stage, and there's more than just pumpkin spice in the air this year in Arcadia.

Snippets, Snails, and Trollish Tales @whitherwanderyouspirit Some mostly Stricklake centered Halloween one shoots ranging from sweet to spooky to downright terrifying.

The Manor atop the Hill @avirxy A Haunted House story like you've never seen done before. When a desperate and frightened Jim follows his mother into the mysterious mansion on the outskirts of town he finds himself trapped in more ways than one. No one has lived in this house for as long as anyone can remember, but it is far from empty. Forced to rely on ghosts and a mysterious girl, Jim has to keep his wits about him if he wants to escape with his life, and his soul, intact.

cave bestiam @rosemaidenvixen Based on the online two sentance horror story "A girl heard her mom yell her name from downstairs, so she got up and started to head down. As she got to the stairs, her mom pulled her into her room and said, “I heard that, too.” But staring Barbara and Jim.

Fear of Fears @rosemaidenvixen An alternate take on my sunshine au. Jim decideds to sneak out on Halloween by passing his troll form off as a costume, a decision that will ripple outward into horrific consequences.

Tales of All Hallows Eve @rosemaidenvixen Collection of my Halloween themed one shots and drabbles.

Dig your eight graves @rosemaidenvixen Eight teens from Arcadia wander far from home and suffer a brutal attack from an evil that was much closer to home than they could ever imagine. Alone and traumatized, one of them makes a bargain in order to reclaim what was taken from them. They gain everything they ask for and more, but lose more than they ever thought possible.

A Bunch of Hocus Pocus @rosemaidenvixen A collection of 31 spooky and Halloween themed one shots for Tales of Arcadia and The Owl House, released one per day each day of October until Halloween.

[rivertigo]

how did u of m get the doors for their homecoming dance like that genuinely pisses me off. I’m glad jim morrison was so drunk it made a bunch of people leave not only because of the ripple effect it had on the stooges but because they didn’t deserve to have the doors play their homecoming dance

[c4t1l1n4]

So I wrote a quick little short fic about THIS cute comic by @uhuraborealis. I wrote it just now in like 10 minutes so it's not edited, but you can read it under the cut!

Vulcans Tell No Lies

Spock knows that when Jim approaches him with a look like that, nothing good is going to come of it.

“Spock,” Jim asks, voice full of wonder and eyes full of stars. “Can you meld with the Enterprise? Tell her I love her?”

Spock considers the captain for a moment. It’s not something he’s thought about—mind-melding with a ship. He doesn’t really think that anything would happen, as much as he’s touched the console and felt nothing in response. He knows that humans refer to ships as female and often personify them out of loneliness or a need for bonding. He doesn’t understand why humans can’t just appreciate a machine for the tasks it performs, but seeing as much as Dr. McCoy tries to project his human emotions on Spock himself, he supposes that it must just be second nature to them.

He indulges in a more human tendency, seeing as it was just him and Jim, and sighs. It cannot hurt to try, if not for the very least on the premise of scientific discovery, and it’s not like there’s anyone around to judge him.

“Fine.” He agrees rather bluntly, but Jim just looks at him, enthralled.

Spock supposes, as he places a hand on the console, that he can always lie for the sake of appeasing Jim. Vulcans do not lie, but as McCoy always points out, Spock is only half-vulcan, and half-vulcans can bend the truth. 

However, as he reaches out for what he can find of the consciousness of the Enterprise, he finds that he has no reason to lie. He is so caught off guard by the discovery as some form of being reaches back towards him, that he is overwhelmed by the experience.

The Enterprise does not think in the same way, with clear structure, intent, or words. No, she thinks with colors and emotions, bright and loud, filling up his senses. She is overwhelmingly a she, and she imparts him with the notion that she will tolerate nothing less from him, even if it means zapping him through the console like a misbehaving child.

He supposes that might be the best way to describe the way she feels about the crew—as children. They are all so much smaller than her, and she cares for them, treating them as gently as she can. In return, they treat her with love and respect and keep her in working order. If Dr. McCoy would stop hitting the biobed display screens when he was frustrated, she would appreciate that, though.

After taking a moment to reign the sensory flood back in, Spock organizes his mind and sends a specific train of thought to her. The words do not translate to her, so he tries to phrase them in a way she would understand, thinking of command gold, bright eyes, and a happy spirit. He focuses on the general sense of cheer, well-being, and concern that Jim carries for every member of his crew, but also on the horribly mushy feeling Spock gets on the inside when thinking about him.

Color ripples across his vision, something like laughter, and he thinks she gets the point. The reply he gets in return is what he sent tenfold—a tidal wave of things he could not possibly put into words and yet understands perfectly. He thanks her, sending a bright wave of gratitude radiating warmly from deep inside him, and pulls away.

He opens his eyes and looks over to Jim, who is waiting patiently. Curiosity and excitement dance in his eyes. There is no possible way to convey what he experienced in what felt like hours but was probably only seconds, so instead he says, “She loves you back.”

When Jim beams at him, smile wide and eyes glistening, Spock is glad it is no lie at all.

[wistfulnightingale]

Ineffables in Check (The Consequences of the Metatron's First Move)

Part 3 of 8 in The Chess Moves Theory Set by @wistfulnightingale

As we moved closer and closer to the heart wrenching ending of S2 of Good Omens, there were moments that we thought about later, even after rewatches. Some, because they were especially sweet, or emotionally beautiful, or had a foreshadowing clue in them. There are also scenes we sometimes ponder because there was something about it that didn't make sense. A weird tonal shift, or change in pacing, or character inconsistency. Was it a writing glitch? Did we miss something?

I've taken a deep dive in recent months... (I'd say "Send Help!" but I've been enjoying it waaaay too much!). It started with one singular observation I thought could actually be a theory (The Circle Kiss Theory). But I wanted to make sure everything made sense, at least enough to make it worth proposing as more than headcannon. One thing led to the next, and I kept noticing scene after scene that had odd little inconsistencies. I began to wonder if there was a common thread that connected the weirdness.

Such as when, in Episode 5, Aziraphale rushes away looking extremely stiff and anxious after inviting Nina to the meeting. Then Crowley, The "Good Old-Fashioned Lover Boy," acts like he never even had a flickering thought of being in love with Aziraphale. (I talk about their relationship status in An Old Married Couple.)

Next, Crowley is suddenly brooding about Jim/Gabriel, despite having had a lovely comfortable time with him while trying to inspire Va-vooms the other day. Our demon then goes on the attack with Jim. Sure, he's still concerned, but what suddenly inspired that degree of protective rage?

That evening, our hopeless romantic Aziraphale is not only acting hopelessly besotted, he seems to be acting ridiculously foolish. Nina tells him there is danger out there, and Crowley announces demons on the doorstep -- and all Azi wants to do is dance! Is he really that witless or imprudent, this angel who solved the mysterious Agnes Nutter prophecies in a day, and who stood ready to stand against Satan himself with a flaming sword?

And the next morning, when Crowley returns from Heaven, why did Azi say, "You came back!" with such relief? Not, "Where were you?" or "Why didn't you come back?" Curiouser and curiouser...

Investigating all this, I made an absolutely bonkers discovery that I think connects it all and can make these scenes make sense. If I'm right about the stocky white-haired guy with the dark overcoat in the coffee shop behind Nina, I think the Metatron came early, in Episode 5. (Breathe, please! Don't hate me!) Please check out The Metatron Misdirection, Part 1 of my theory set, for lots of screenshots and reasons I think it's possible.

If this is true,  it began a series of moves in a deadly serious game of chess between himself and our Ineffables. Suddenly, the stakes are raised, and Aziraphale and Crowley are no longer just trying to outmaneuver foolish archangels -- the most dangerous celestial authority that exists is on to them... In chess terms, they have been put in check. There is a looming threat that they must escape, and try to turn the board in their favor. It ripples through the scenes that follow.

We didn't see it all coming -- but our Ineffables did.

(If you haven't read Parts 1 & 2 of my Chess Moves Theory yet, I reeeally recommend you look at those first, or this could get confusing. If not, bear in mind that everything I'm about to talk about is based on the belief that Aziraphale and Crowley saw the Metatron through the coffee shop window during their sidewalk conversations with Nina in Episode 5. Also the belief that our Ineffables are basically An Old Married Couple.)

Seeing the Metatron's unannounced presence in Nina's shop was an unexpected shock. A happy, playful afternoon crumbles into worry. When the awkward interaction with Nina ends, Crowley takes off in the opposite direction from Aziraphale in hopes that the Metatron didn’t see their playfully familiar interactions earlier.  Just another collegial encounter, he hopes.

When Azi encounters him later at the cafe, Crowley has been sitting there watchfully brooding. (It's an excellent vantage point to keep track of who's inside the coffee shop, btw.) Remember how, when Crowley signals to him from his table, Aziraphale looks around first, like "Who, me?" That seemed odd, didn't it? Who else would Crowley be calling to? Azi then approaches rather stiffly, and speaks tersely. "I'm at work, and I have a meeting..." He also looks back at the bookshop several times, before he finally relaxes.

I propose that Azi needed to make sure the Metatron was gone, that he purposely made it look like a casual and rather unpleasant business contact until he knew it was safe. The angel then double checks the bookshop, even after he sits down, to be certain the Metatron isn't there. Only then does Azi relax. He's so relieved that he teases and flirts with Crowley, hoping to ease his demon's worry.

"Why don't you wait inside? You like waiting inside." This sweetly odd comment also caught our attention. I believe it was part of their special coded communication. "My dear, I know you're worried. I worry about you as well. Rather than risking yourself here in the open, watching in case he returns, I'd much rather you go to the bookshop. You'd be much safer there, it's protected." (I examine this scene further in Part 5, Nothing Lasts Forever)

Seeing the Metatron has also made our vigilant demon uneasy -- perhaps he put down his guard too soon regarding Gabriel. The last we saw of Jim and Crowley together, they were happily discussing va-vooms and deciphering tempests. Now Crowley is worried and uncertain. He sees himself as the rescuer, the protector. Because of the Metatron, his uncertainty escalates into focused suspicion. Maybe Gabriel was sent by the Metatron to spy on them!

Crowley goes full demon on Jimbriel in what, otherwise, looks like an unprovoked confrontation. Only Jim's willingness to literally jump out a window allows Crowley to trust him again. Thankfully, their conversation afterwards allows Crowley to acquire some much needed information that he investigates later that night in his trip to Heaven. A successful countermove in this terrible chess game.

Things are happening fast now. Aziraphale's regency ball is that evening. The angel seemingly wants to pretend there's no danger outside, despite warnings from both Nina and Crowley. He just wants to dance with his demon. It seems silly, foolishly idealistic to ignore the threat.

Aziraphale is no fool, though. He had hoped the potential danger from the Metatron was over, and now there's a hoard of demons at the door. Is the Metatron somehow responsible? Did He send the demons? (through "the grapevine that obviously doesn't exist") Perhaps their world is about to fall apart. What seemed silly becomes sad and poignant. "You don't dance," Crowley said. They've never danced together. Aziraphale was planning to give his love the gift of a dance. The angel is desperately eager for one last romantic evening together, in case the precious peaceful fragile existence they carved out for themselves is soon to be shattered...

The next morning, when the battle has ended and Crowley returns from his trip to Heaven, a pale and exhausted Aziraphale is extremely relieved. "You came back...!" he exclaims, as if startled or surprised. He doesn't ask, "Where were you?" or "Why did you leave me alone?" Crowley had promised to not leave the angel on his own, and Azi had anticipated the Heroic Rescue. Instead, Crowley disappeared and didn't return.

It would only take a dire reason for Crowley to break his promise to his Angel. He could have "surrendered" to Muriel another time, to hunt for Heavenly information about Gabriel. Why now?? Because the stakes have become incredibly high if the Metatron is involved, and Crowley seized his chance when he saw Muriel there.

Perhaps, knowing Crowley so well, Aziraphale guessed where Crowley had gone. I suspect he did. "You came back...!" Azi knows that Crowley will always return to him, if it's in his power to do so. He wasn't afraid that Crowley would choose not to return. He was fearful that Crowley wouldn't be able to return.

Aziraphale was afraid that Crowley had encountered the Metatron, face to face. That Crowley was no longer able to return. Or worse.

-----

I hope you're enjoying my theories and meta analysis. For more, you might want to check out the other interconnected parts of the Chess Moves Theory Set at @wistfulnightingale.

The 8 Chess Moves MetaTheory Set:

1 - The Metatron Misdirection

2 - The Metatron's Second Coming

3 - Ineffables in Check

4 - A Hefty Jigger of Death

5 - Nothing Lasts Forever

6 - The Circle Kiss Theory

7 - The Nightingale DID Sing

8 - Aziraphale's Jubilant Smile (Not the crazy elevator grin)

Also: The Chess Moves Theory Set, Why Chess & Magic?

[spirkme915]

my muse took a hard left turn yesterday and i picked up a fic i'd given up on months ago. this is pretty much how it went down...

no one:

me: aos spirk kohlinar fic (with an extra painful twist) coming right up

angst-ridden snippet (with an eventual HEA) under the cut:

Approximately six months into their first five year mission, the main transporter room of the Enterprise picks up a ghost. Or, at least, that’s what the crew decides to call it.

Jim tries really hard to dissuade the entire idea, but it can’t be picked up on sensors, there’s no mechanical or alien explanation for it, and Scotty - the most brilliant engineer Jim has ever known - is at a complete loss.

So. The voice and cold spot in the transporter room becomes The Ghost.

Sometimes the crew picks up a hint of a whisper - a voice steady, insistent, and sure, but never recordable or decipherable. Sometimes there’s a tangible tug of a uniform pant then a wash of cold, usually at pad number four. Jim’s seen the crew drawing lots to see who has to take up that spot before a mission and doesn’t fight it anymore. There’s no point since he’s never going to tell them that it’s not The Ghost they should fear — it’s the lack of it.

Honestly? Jim never would’ve picked up the pattern. There are too many variables when they undergo a mission — number of assigned crew, emergency status, mission parameters, mission preparedness, and which of the twelve transporter rooms they beam out from, or if they beam out of an official transporter room at all. Jim’s good at seeing patterns, really good at complex math, but not good enough to take billions of possible permutations and synthesize them into one dangerous truth:

The Ghost always remains silent before missions that go bad.

Twelve years since their spectral frenemy’s arrival, Jim stands in the main transporter room facing the platform and the sole occupant of pad number two. They both stand with their hands clasped behind their backs. Silence weights of every atom of oxygen Jim forces into his lungs.

The bitter part of him — the too Human part of him — revels in the quiet. He’s always known that this run would come to an end. That the Enterprise couldn’t stay out in deep space forever. He’s always known that the end of their second five-year mission would mean a refit of the “Fleet flagship, a slew of promotions, and an unknown future. He always expected that he’d hear hints of a whisper when he beamed off the Enterprise for, possibly, the last time. He expected that The Ghost, in its own spectral frenemy way, would bless him.

But it’s not him beaming off the Enterprise for, definitely, the last time.

Spock stands stiffly in Vulcan robes on transporter pad number two, his affect distant and cold. So far removed that he may as well already be on the ground.

Next to Jim, Nyota seethes.

“Give us the room,” Nyota says to the techs without bothering to turn around.

Jim glances over his shoulder to nod his approval, but they’ve already abandoned their post and are scampering for the hallway. Smart move; he wishes he could join them.

“He’s not coming, Spock,” Nyota says. “If you’re holding off beaming down because you expect McCoy to show up — or anyone else for that matter — it’s not happening.”

Spock doesn’t answer. His gaze doesn’t shift from somewhere off in the middle distance.

Jim breathes in more of the silence, bitterness carving deeper into his veins.

“Look me in the fucking eye,” Nyota snaps. “You owe me that much.”

Spock’s cold stare slides to her and Nyota tilts her head, a motion so Spock-like that a shiver ripples down Jim’s spine.

“No. It’s not McCoy. What are you waiting for?”

“Nyota—” Jim tries.

“Don’t,” she says, a tremble in her voice. Jim’s heart, already mortally wounded, rents further. “Spock, please. If you’re having any second thoughts, then it’s okay. You don’t have to go. Please —”

Jim shakes his head. “He’s not having second thoughts.”

“Then what the hell is he waiting for?! As if the last month hasn’t been bad enough, watching him slip away from all of us. And you —”

“Lieutenant Commander,” Jim says calmly to Nyota. “Do you hear The Ghost?”

Nyota startles at the seemingly abrupt change of course.

“No. I— No, Captain.”

“That’s what he’s waiting for.”

Before Nyota can demand the answers she rightfully deserves, Jim flips open his comm and calls the techs back into the room.

The bitter part of him — the undisciplined part of him — revels in the pervasive hush that falls over the room when the techs take up their position. Knowing that Spock hasn’t beamed out yet because he’s waiting for their spectral frenemy to appear and validate his choices.

To absolve him.

Yes, Jim’s always known that this run would come to an end. That the Enterprise couldn’t stay out in deep space forever. He’s always known that the end of their second five-year mission would mean a refit of the “Fleet flagship, a slew of promotions, and an unknown future. But that unknown future didn’t scare him; he’d have Spock at his side.

Spock. His first officer and friend. His closest confidant and his brother in arms. His husband, his telsu. His t’hyla.

“Coordinates confirmed?” he asks the techs.

“Confirmed, Captain.”

Spock’s icy, empty stare finally slides to Jim, fingers splayed in the Vulcan salute. “Live long and prosper, Captain.”

Internally Jim’s screaming FUCK YOU over and over again at the top of his lungs, but if there’s one thing he’s learned in the last twelve years as a Starfleet captain it’s restraint.

He lifts a ta’al and says, “Peace and long life, Commander.”

The transporter whirls.

The Ghost remains silent.

Jim’s life as he’s known it for the last twelve years ends.

[confesspinkfloyd]

Roger Waters is a scary ass mfer and I'm tired of everyone pretending he's hot. He has the worst yee yee ass haircut I've ever seen and his chest looks like it's rippling from the alien trapped inside. Not to mention he has absolutely NO ASS, his face is hella square, and his cheekbones are so sunken they make him look like a drowned corpse. He looks like he smells like Slim Jims too. Nasty.